


He's Not Alright.

by LilyLemon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety, F/M, Good Friends, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Panic Attacks, Remus Lupin Needs a Hug, Remus has anxiety, School, TW: Self Harm, actually they're great friends, top tier friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28030560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyLemon/pseuds/LilyLemon
Summary: Most people called it a panic attack, but he called it a swirling maelstrom of shit.This briefly documents Remus' journey through school, dealing with anxiety, and his friends helping him by literally showering him with love (as he deserves).
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black & Remus Lupin & Peter Pettigrew & James Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35





	He's Not Alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this quickly, but I hope you enjoy this!  
> TW: Anxiety, panic attacks, mentions of self harm (but no graphic descriptions).  
> If you're going through something, talking to someone always helps. And remember, it does get better!

Once, he was the scared first year, shirtsleeves perfectly cuffed and damp from tears, who would yank the curtains to his bed shut and have panic attacks, while the others stood there, unable to do anything but listen to the sound of his quick, stuttering breaths and sobs. He used to take homework to bed with him and read the same line of his essay again and again until it all morphed into words, words, words that he didn’t understand; he’d his lip and draw blood to stop himself falling asleep until he’d finished reading the pages of the textbook he’d set himself. The taste of blood the next day would always hit him with a wave of virulent guilt, and he’d vow not to do it again that night, but he’d end up opening the cuts that had only just healed, and tainting them with the stinging salt of his tears. 

Third year was when it got bad. Choking on his fears in class, in the hall, in the corridors, in their dorm, in the common room. Most people called it a panic attack, but he called it a swirling maelstrom of shit. He’d get caught under the tidal waves, inhale so much water his eyes would go blurry and he’d almost pass out, and sometimes he wouldn’t resurface for days. The medical journal his friends bought - a purchase fuelled by worry for him - said sometimes the after effects of a panic attack could be severe, so they all piled in his bed and whispered things they loved about him, every single night, hoping it would help. And though he tenaciously tried not to smile, or cry, when they muttered, “Moony, you’ve got such perfect nails”, and “Moony, how do you do your hair so nicely”, or “You’re so good at Charms, Moony, can you teach me?”, most nights he ended up crying anyway. The others took it as a good sign, and wrote him notes in glitter pens, saying how special he was, that they put on his pillow, in his bag, in the pockets of his clothes. After every panic attack, another flurry of pink and gold shiny letters would come, and it was these notes that kept him going.

Fifth year was the worst. A sexuality crisis - which wasn’t a crisis, because he’d known he was gay since he was ten, but was a period of fear induced when he realised that he was in love with his best friend - and the exams which left him drowning in papers, as his arms drowned in cuts like passengers squeeze onto a tube and cram themselves in any available space, caused storms to confine himself to the bathroom as he threw up from pure fear. The stench of bile, noticeable only to him and the other three, followed him into every room, like a ghost from his happier past few years desperate to torment him and remind him how much worse he’d gotten. All his attention was affixed on shoving tears back - and locking them in some dark cupboard in the back of his head - whenever he received exam results that were worse than he was expecting, and convincing teachers and friends that he was alright. He knew he wasn’t alright. They knew he wasn’t alright. Everyone knew he wasn’t alright. It’s why they always asked, with a sickly kindliness that made him want to puke (for the third time every morning), how he slept. He’d respond with some kind of smile that he hoped didn’t look like the sheer panic and disgust he felt, but the bags under his eyes and the way his hands shook from exhaustion screamed that he was lying. No, he wasn’t alright. He was falling apart. 

Sixth year was slightly better. The summer, filled with lazy kisses after he’d finally said how he felt, gave him time to breathe and escape from the weights that chained him to the bottom of an ocean of unhappiness, drowning. The panic attacks were fewer, down to only one or two times a week. His friends started a rewards chart for whenever he admitted he was anxious, and fed him chocolate and words of encouragement, which worked more than he’d ever admit. His anxiety still seemed like some indomitable monster hiding round every corner, but at least he was armed with a knife to beat it down. 

He screamed into pillows when it got particularly bad, but he wasn’t sick every morning, and he ate. Maybe it didn’t seem like a victory, but the rosette his friends gave him - a garish yellow that hurt his eyes, and read “You’re a hero!” in red calligraphy - made it seem like one. He still wasn’t alright, but at least he was slowly pieced back together, with bits of sticky tape and blutack provided by his friends and coping strategies. 

Seventh year is the end. Not the end of his anxiety, though he wishes it is, but the end of school. They make plans to move into an apartment together, excluding James, because he knocked Lily up, and Peter, because he’s moving back in with his parents. So, Remus and Sirius make plans to move in together, and they read magazines about London to prepare themselves for the flat in the centre of town that they dream of (they won’t end up buying anything, much less in the middle of London, but they end up renting an apartment on the outskirts, which is good enough for them). He has fewer panic attacks than ever, and he almost never makes himself sick with worry. His collection of rosettes and certificates from his friends, marking his milestones of keeping razors away from his wrists, grows larger, and he loads them all into a shoebox on the last day of term so he can take them to the new flat. On the final day, as they all traipse out of the school grounds, gripping each other’s shoulders like they’re keeping one another afloat - and they are, as Remus knows, because he’d have drowned in his sea of anxiety by now if it wasn’t for them - half crying, half laughing, and waving goodbye to their home of seven years, he thinks of what he’s been through, what he’s survived. And he reckons now, finally, he’s alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed reading this! Come and say hi on tumblr (My username is lilylemon12) if you liked this!


End file.
